


The Post-Office Savings Book

by Capostrophe



Series: At The End of the Day [2]
Category: Bread (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Depression, Destructive Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Job stress, Life changing decision, Living Together, Power of prayer, Relationship breakdown, Social Security, Suicidal Thoughts, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capostrophe/pseuds/Capostrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It's not the racket that's keeping her awake. It's more the nauseating feeling that something in her life is not right, and she doesn't know how to fix it.'<br/>Prequel to 'At the End of the Day' (but can stand alone). Martina tries to come to terms with the destructive nature of her relationship with Shifty, and the fact that she needs to get out before it's too late. Set 2 years after the show finishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Post-Office Savings Book

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to 'At the End of the Day', but it could stand as a separate story. Quite a lot angstier than 'AtEotD', so beware. Things get quite depressing for the poor little DHSS lady.

**1993  
**

_~X~X_

It's dark and cold and noisy, the traffic going past outside creating a cacophonous symphony of beeps and brake squeals that would keep most people awake- only the two of them are used to the sounds by now, and can sleep through it. Well, he can, anyway.

Martina sits by the window, holding the curtain aside and staring at the passing cars below. It's not the racket that's keeping her up, though. It's more the nauseating feeling that something in her life is not right, and she doesn't know how to fix it.

Martina puts up with far much more than she should. She acts like the hard-faced, heart-of-stone warrior behind the DHSS counter, but outside of work, she's a pushover. Well, not a pushover, per se- but there's an insecurity within her that's lurked about since she was small, one which drives her time and time again to settle for less, because really, what more can she expect from life? She's aimed low all her life. Pathetic job, pathetic man- and if neither are to her satisfaction, who is she to ask for more, anyway?

The result is total and utter misery. But she's stuck with it all nonetheless. To her, happiness is a thing of fiction, a thing that other people experience, but she's yet to get a taste of other than for a few brief seconds at a time. A realist, she calls herself on some days. A pessimist, she calls herself on others. Completely and utterly hopeless, she calls herself now.

She'd never really had all that many aspirations, not even when she was young, but even so, she hadn't pictured it being _this_ bleak. She doesn't have one blessing to count, let alone two to rub together. Everything she's thought might lead to a bit of happiness has turned out to make things worse, and yet she's clung onto all she has regardless.

Shifty's an example of that.

She knows she loves him and should cut him some slack. She tells herself that enough times. She can even remember when she didn't have to force herself to think so.

But she looks over at him now, and something sickens her. She lives in a house full of trinkets he's stolen- half her evenings are spent in fear that the police will come looking for them, will burst into the flat in the middle of the night, and she'll be implicated. And it won't be a light sentence if that does happen- some of those stolen objects aren't exactly small. Or cheap.

And then there are the other women. She hasn't confronted him about them, doesn't know their names, even what they look like, where they are, when he's seeing them, but she knows they exist nonetheless. She knows the smell of her own perfume, and of Shifty's cologne, and he comes back frequently reeking of a scent that's neither.

And on top of that she has to add the constant wanderings. In a good week, she'll see him maybe two, three times, even though they've lived together for two years now, been together for three, maybe even four, only she's lost track. Shifty's always off somewhere to 'find himself.' He must be looking in the wrong places, because he still hasn't been successful to date. And she'd wager he's pilfered a car or two when he goes off on these 'journeys of self-discovery.' It all makes her ill, right to her core. She shouldn't put up with it. She should have come to her senses long ago and kicked him out.

Not that she hasn't tried. She tries often, makes an attempt to be strong and says that only an idiot would fall for his lies the fourth, the fifth, the twentieth time. But within a few days she always lets him back in. It's because she loves him, she tells herself. And when you love someone, you have to make allowances. So she gives in. And she's so convincing she almost believes herself.

She loves him. Or rather, she did, anyway. Once. A while ago. Once upon a time, in a faraway land.

Now, Martina realises, she stays with him from a sort of feeble fear of change. She's never been partial to great emotional upheavals- they're such a waste of time and effort and they drain far too much of her. It's so much better, she thinks, to stay put, especially when she's put roots down- to pull them out would mean pain, and a lot of difficulty. The pain here, at least, she's used to. She can cope with it. She knows what to expect.

It's…easy.

It's easier to pretend things are all right. Martina's an expert at putting a brave face on it, maintaining a good shop-front while inside she's going to pieces. And this is what she does, day in, day out, while Shifty gallivants around with women, comes home at all hours after days of disappearing without warning, drinks himself into a stupor, shouts, steals things. Losing him would mean she would have to start over, and it's the idea of this unknown sort of future that she finds so daunting she tolerates it all- not with good humour (she's never turned down the opportunity for a good complain about the hand she's been dealt), but she tolerates it all the same, because what's the alternative?

But now Martina sits and stares into the night and thinks. She catches sight of her reflection in the window, and she doesn't like it. Here is a woman who's given up, who's written her whole life off as a failure. And she doesn't even have an excuse for it, really. She can't say she's too tired to start afresh- she's only just thirty-four. People in their thirties are still taking risks, still finding new horizons, doing the sort of daring things she's never felt like doing. She doesn't really want to take many risks- doesn't even want to try. You take a leap, you fall, you hurt yourself, that's what she's learned from life. And so she's played it safe, but that doesn't seem to work either, because she's just as sore, just as hurt, just as downtrodden and miserable as if she'd tried and failed.

For a minute something terrible grabs hold of her, possesses her. She cranes her head, tries to see down to the pavement. She wonders just how far down it is; if she opened up the window and slid off the sill, how quick it would be, how much it would hurt. It would be so simple. She wouldn't have to face any more mess, have to go through any more upheavals. That would be it. Nice and tidy and final. Her fingers twitch.

No, no, a voice in her head says. No, no, no, _no, NO._ She doesn't want that, not really. She may not have the happiest of lives, but she's still got about half of it left, and she wants to hold onto it.

But the realisation that she's even allowed herself to contemplate that option is a turning point for Martina. If things have gotten to this point, then something's got to change. Something's got to give, because at the moment she's got nothing, _nothing_ that feels worth it. And nothing isn't enough to go on.

Like it or not, she's going to have to do something about her life.

She walks back over to the bed, looks at Shifty, sleeping selfishly, taking up seven-eighths of the space, something shining gold clutched in his hand. Probably stolen. She shakes her head. He's draining away her spirit a little bit at a time. Even now, watching him, her throat constricts. She's invested too much emotional attachment in him, but he's not good for her, never has been. And it isn't likely things are going to go uphill, not when they're rolling down at a steady, sure pace.

_I need to get away from all this._

It kills her to admit it, but that's the only way. This is going nowhere, and if she ever, ever wants a hope of a future, she needs to go. Just grit her teeth and walk away. And the sooner the better.

She'll start working out what she's going to do tomorrow.

Martina gets back into bed but doesn't sleep.

* * *

The problem Martina's always had is that she gives her love to people who make a wreck of her. Her brother Roger was a prime example of this- already an alcoholic when she was _born_ , he was probably the worst influence any young child could have in their little lives. If her parents said no to something, Roger would give it to her- and her requests, for someone so young, were quite dreadful ones. And yet, though she knew he was a bad influence, she loved him something awful, and it broke her heart when he eventually got into trouble with the law and ran off, desperately trying to avoid arrest and effectively abandoning her.

In many ways, she thinks that what attracted her to Shifty was his resemblance to Roger- the sort of scruffy sweetness that endears at a first glance, the potential to make something of himself, unfulfilled and overshadowed by the all-consuming desire to attain more by the quickest, and often shadiest means possible. They're very much alike- she's let herself love them without considering the consequences, and they've destroyed her.

Well, never again, she thinks. If this is what love does to you, she doesn't want it anymore.

Shifty leaves early the next morning. Where he's going he doesn't say. What he's doing she could make several guesses at, if she wanted to, only she'd rather not. She pretends to be asleep, feels him give her a routine kiss before he goes, waits until she hears the door to the flat shut and his footsteps die off before she gets out of bed.

Martina doesn't really know where to go or what to do. Where to start, even. She drags her coat on, wanders around town, turmoil raging through her mind.

She hasn't a clue where she's heading, and when she finds her feet have taken her to outside a church, she goes in without looking at which one it is. Names don't matter- either will do just fine. If anyone needs a prayer right now, it's her.

It smells nice and feels safe, and Martina decides she'll stay here a while, whilst she works out what to do next.

She kneels down, and starts talking, voicing her fears out loud. There aren't any other people in here at the moment, so she decides it doesn't matter if she does.

'Hello,' she begins awkwardly. She fiddles with a button on her coat. 'Er, I haven't been here in a while. Year or two maybe. But You know that. I probably should've though, eh? I've just had a lot to do, and sometimes I forget.'

She clears her throat. 'The thing is, I've just reached a point where…' the fiddling with her button becomes more frantic, 'where nothing in my life seems…worth anythin' anymore. And I want ter do somethin' about that, but…' a tear escapes, and her voice breaks. 'it's hard. And I don't know what to do, and I don't even know if it's the right thing, but…I'm desperate. I could really use something right now- oh, I don't know, even just…the courage to get up and do it, to leave Shifty. I just can't stay with him anymore- but it frightens me, the idea of leavin'.'

Martina pauses, wipes her eyes. 'I know, I shouldn't _be_ frightened. I've built me whole image on appearin' like I don't care about anythin', like I can face up to whatever anyone says or does. Thing is, sometimes I can't. I don't always manage to stay frosty, and…and emotionless, and especially not when it's someone I used to love…it just makes it that little bit harder. And I'm not askin' fer- fer a miracle, or anything like that, I just want…to be able to do it. To go. I don't want to be afraid ter make that break. Because I think maybe then…maybe…my life…might get a bit better.'

She pauses again, trying to get her ragged breathing under control. 'That's about it. Yeah. That's all I wanted to say, really…thanks.'

Martina doesn't cry. When she first started working in the DHSS, she trained herself not to. It was essential- if the more aggressive clients catch you showing signs of weakness, they'll eat you, and she vowed at the beginning never to let that happen. Instead she stays where she is, slowly pulling herself back together, taking deep breaths until she calms, forcing the tears back to wherever they came from.

A few more minutes go by, or maybe an hour. She isn't keeping track.

Martina feels a gentle pressure on the back of her head.

She shifts from her position, looks at her watch. It's about midday, but she doesn't know what time she got here, so that doesn't tell her anything. She looks at it again, even though she knows full well the miniature clock face can provide her with no new information.

And then she gets up and walks out.

And her legs propel her right to the estate agents across town.

* * *

Within two weeks, she's got it all planned out, has got some of her plan underway.

He can have the flat. She doesn't want it, and he won't go if she asks him to leave. Martina wants to start afresh, be somewhere he can't find, where no-one can find, have a sanctuary to herself that's never been invaded by loves gone wrong. And so she starts looking, hides real estate notices in with her paperwork, sacrifices lunch breaks to look at affordable places.

Shifty will be furious, of course. Martina has always, _always_ paid the rent, even though she knows that Shifty's got a whole backlog severance pay from the jobs he's constantly losing, is bound to get more, could easily afford it. He'll have to cope now- and, she thinks, really, it's about time he was forced to take care of himself.

Shifty flits in and out as he's always done, not noticing the change in her. He's still stealing and cheating as he always has, and occasionally he'll let slip the detail of something or other he shouldn't have done. A short while ago, each of these admissions would have weighed Martina down- another burden. Now she dismisses them in her mind. She's got a plan of action, and she's devoting as much of her waking thought to it as possible, rather than allowing all her brain space to be sacrificed to this tragedy of a wreck of a relationship.

She's not going to tell him right away, though. It might be an easy way out, but her plan is to have everything sorted and settled before she breaks the news to him that it's over, so there will be as few confrontations as possible, so there will be no arguments over division of property, so she won't have to hang around the place, one or other of them sleeping in a different room, while she tries to find somewhere to live with him breathing down her neck, or worse, and more probable actually, trying to talk her into changing her mind. No, until she's actually gone, Shifty doesn't need to know anything.

The front door opens and shuts. Martina sits on the brochures she's been looking through, picks up her sewing as Shifty does a token wipe of his feet.

'And where have you been?' She shouldn't ask- she's given up trying to stop him going out and doing his dirty deeds, but she can't go looking suspicious now, when everything's so close, when she's almost left, so she demands it anyway.

'If anyone asks, I was _here_ ,' he stalks right through into the bedroom, leaving a trail of mud, as well as his coat, scarf and shoes as he flings them off, through the living room.

'What did you take this time?' She's weary of this, and her voice betrays it.

He hesitates in the doorway, looks round at her. He's irritated, twitchy. Whatever he's done has put him in the pathway of some serious trouble.

'I've taken nothing.' He's lying. They both know this.

 _The sooner I get out o' here the better_. And it will be soon now.

She gazes after him as he slams the bedroom door, muttering something about needing to change his clothes. For a moment she thinks about what he might have gotten himself into, and she falters. He's so _lost_. He needs help. He needs to be guided, taught not to keep doing wrong.

And she could do that. She could try, she could be his help, she…

_Honestly, Martina. Talk sense. You've been tryin' ter help 'im since the dawn of time. He doesn't want to listen. How are you gonna do now what you haven't managed in four years?_

She swallows. She's almost just done it again, fallen back into the same delusions that have kept her trapped for far too long. Shifty, she has to understand, is never going to change. And it isn't as if she hasn't tried to change him before. She has. She's sat him down, had frank talks with him. She's shouted at him, when he's gone two steps beyond too far. And it's all to no avail. He'll utter an apology, try and shift the blame onto his upbringing, kiss her, because he's found that works better than actually trying to do anything about anything, and then within a day he'll have done it again.

No, she's going to have to get away. If she doesn't, she'll be stuck here forever, trying to fix something that's beyond repair, and just breaking herself into even more pieces as she does so.

She's made up her mind, and she's going to stick with her decision, no matter what.

* * *

The flat she finds is poky to say the very least. On top of that, it's dingy, it could probably use some repairs, but it's cheap, and in what can by a long shot be called walking distance from the Social Security office, if she starts out early enough.

And Martina doesn't care about the flaws- not now. If things get to be too bad, she can look for somewhere else at her leisure, but right now her immediate concern is getting _something_ , and this fits that criterion well enough.

'All right, then,' she tells the landlord, 'I'll take it.'

He looks at her with surprise. It's clear enough he's been trying to get a tenant for a long time, and has found little interest.

'I'll need the first month's rent in advance- paid in full by the end of the week.'

'Done,' she says quickly, and he raises an eyebrow.

By the following Monday she has the keys. By the following Thursday, she's begun to move things in, taking first what won't be noticeable, leaving what she can spare behind. If she feels she can live without it, it doesn't come.

She starts to smile at her clients at work, and this frightens them more than her usual behaviour. They wonder if something's wrong with her.

But, for the first time in a while, something's going right. It's still difficult, she still feels twangs at her heartstrings when she looks at Shifty asleep and realises soon she'll never see him like this again, but she's reassured by the fact that this is the right thing to do, and soon enough, all the stress and depression and pain will be over.

She hopes.

* * *

He's absorbed in the football on the telly when she comes out with it. This was always the part of the evening she liked, back in the day- when it's football season Shifty's home routinely every night, and doesn't leave the sofa for hours. Granted, he doesn't talk to her, but it's enough of his company that she can pretend he's spending time with her.

Realising now what she's been doing, she can see just how tragic it all is, how deluded she was for thinking that settling for that little could be in any way good for her.

Time to do it. Everything's been leading up to this, she's taken all the steps except one, and after all the effort she's been to, she'd bloody well better do it. Now, before she changes her mind.

'Shifty.'

'Huh.' He barely looks up from his programme.

She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth.

'Shifty, I'm goin'.'

'Goin' where?' Still not very interested.

'I'm leavin' you.'

That gets his attention. He scrambles off the couch and to his feet in record time, turning to face her with a scandalised expression. It becomes even more scandalised when he properly takes her in, suitcase in hand, coat and scarf done tightly up.

'Oh, _what?'_ he smacks his forehead, 'what 'ave I done _now_?'

Always the same refrain. As if he doesn't ever know.

'It's not just one thing, Shifty, it's 'undreds. It's _everything._ ' How can she explain this? That it's not one of their normal fights, about his latest misdeed, that this time it's for real, final, the end?

'You found out about Liese, didn't you?'

 _Who?_ Martina's beyond caring. The fact that he's had yet another affair takes a smidgeon of the guilt away.

'It's not because of that…'

'I'll stop seein' her, I will! It didn't mean anything, anyway, it's you, it's always been you, she meant nothing to meee…'

 _Don't fall for it._ 'This isn't about…whoever. This is far bigger than your bits on the side, Shifty.'

'Well, is it about that gold credit card I nicked, because I don't know how that ended up in my pocket, believe me…'

He's 'fessing up to all sorts of things today, isn't he? But it doesn't matter. Because she's already made up her mind to leave him, and she's not going to change it back.

'Shifty, I am not goin' because of one woman, or because of one extra stolen thing. I'm goin' because…' she takes a deep breath, 'because I'm not happy.'

He blinks. He doesn't realise. It hasn't hit him, not yet.

'I 'aven't been fer years. And every time I take you back I think 'oh well, this'll be the last time, he'll change for certain', and every time, you weasel yer way back into me life and go on as you always 'ave- and I can't live like that, Shifty! Not anymore. I should've walked away a long time ago.'

'No-one ever thinks anything of me- not even you, me own _lover_ …'

She doesn't know what he hopes to achieve with this comment. Whatever it is, it doesn't work.

'People would think things o' you if you behaved from time to time…'

'You sound like the Boswells! They were always nag-nag-nagging me too!' Shifty hasn't been in contact with the Boswells for a year and half at least. She's not sure why they severed ties. At the time, she'd sided with him, out of duty and loyalty and an ingrained mistrust of all things Boswell, but now she's not so sure they weren't the ones in the right. Perhaps even the codes of 'family' and 'unity' can only take so much.

'And so they should've been, if you treated them the way you treat me!'

'Oh, I'm always mis _treating_ you, am I? Why is it always you who gets to throw a strop? Sometimes I'm upset by things you do and say too, you know!'

So he thinks she's just 'in a strop.' He doesn't realise she means it.

Doesn't realise that this time it isn't a threat- it's actually over.

'You can 'ave the flat,' she says, watching as a shadow comes over his face, as some awareness clicks in his head. 'I don't need it- I've found meself somewhere else to live.'

'Oh, don't, _don't_ , don't do this to me, Martina! Don't say you're _actually_ goin' so far as to say you're moving out for good this time? I _told_ you I'll change!'

He still doesn't believe it, not even when the evidence is staring him in the face.

Martina says nothing, just looks at him, her face hard, shut down to all emotion. She watches his eyes as they flicker over her, trying to swallow it all. After a long while, he gives an aggressive shake of his head, turns back to the telly and away from her.

'Well maybe when you come back, I won't let you in!' he snaps. 'You're not the only one who can have had enough of something, you know!'

Martina sighs. Where even to _begin_ correcting all that? For one thing, Shifty doesn't have a right to say he's 'had enough' of her behaviour, because all the times she's threatened to leave him, _tried_ to leave him, tried to kick him out, have been in retaliation to him in the first place. For another, she's not coming back.

He won't accept that, though. She knows how his mind works, and she knows he's thinking this is all still a trick, some sort of punishment, and that she'll come round in a day or two, start talking to him again, and then it'll be as if none of it happened. They'll fall back into their usual routine. And then he'll wait a little while, make sure it's safe, before going back to his wicked old ways.

He'll soon wise up, she thinks. Once days pass, then weeks, with still no sign of her, he'll realise she means every word, that this is the finale.

She holds her head up, walks past him, out the door and onto the landing, breathing the musty air of the building and relaxing, because she's done it, she's done the right thing. It's over.

' _Women!_ ' she hears Shifty shout from inside the flat.

* * *

It takes about a week to really hit him. A week of peace, but peace at a price- a calm before the storm sort of affair, because she knows that soon he'll find out, and there'll be a riot.

She utilises this borrowed time productively. She unpacks her things, rearranges the furniture in her new flat (it doesn't really fit, no matter which way she sets it all up), tries to work out why she can only get cold water, finds out the bus routes from her new living quarters to work.

It's further from the Social Security than she thought. It's also smaller and darker than she remembered from when she looked around. But she didn't have much to choose from, and even living here without Shifty is better than living in a nice place _with_ Shifty.

Things go wrong, and it's just her luck, she thinks. The stove dies, and she doesn't have enough in her ordinary bank account to pay to have it repaired. Somewhere around, Martina has a post-office savings book, which she's been carefully contributing to every so often for emergencies such as these, but though she tears all her boxes apart, she can't find it. She keeps searching. It can't be at the old place, it just _can't_ \- that's _all_ she needs, having to go back for something and winding up having a dramatic confrontation with Shifty.

It's on a Thursday morning that the inevitable happens. Martina's gotten to work early, the result of bus timetables gone haywire, and she bends over her desk, eyes heavy and sleep-crusted, waiting for her morning coffee to kick in so she'll be ready to face whatever rabble come through the doors to claim today.

Her phone extension rings.

'Hello?' she slurs.

'All your clothes are gone.'

The Irish accent does a better job at waking her up than pet pills would've. She's alert at once.

'Took you that long to notice?'

'All. Your. Clothes. Are. _Gone.'_

'Yes, Shifty,' she says calmly. 'I moved out.'

'Not just a suitcase full! All of them!'

'Yes, Shifty,' she repeats. 'I moved out.'

'What do you think it does to me- I'm lookin' through the drawers, tryin' to find a place to hide the- oh, never mind! And I find that all yours are empty!'

'I know. That's because I _moved out_.'

'And not just your clothes! Other things! There's books missing! Some o' the chairs! All the pink towels in the house!'

' _Because,_ Shifty,' she says through gritted teeth, 'I _moved out!_ ' She seems to just be saying the same thing over and over. If any of her colleagues are listening to this conversation, they'll probably think she's turned into a recording.

'You've moved out.'

'Yes!' she cries, exasperated. 'I've tried ter tell you an 'undred times!'

'So there really is a flat, then?'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'There is.'

Accusingly: 'You've _left_ me.'

'I told you that 'n' all.'

'And when exactly did you decide to break me heart?'

An odd question. Not at all what she was expecting, but a reasonable one, considering. She counts back.

'Few weeks ago. Give or take.'

There's a pause so big she wonders if he's still there.

'A _few weeks_?' his voice is disbelieving. 'You've known you were gonna do this- for weeks? You've been plotting this for weeks?'

A laugh escapes her. She can't help it. ' _Plotting_? You make it sound like _I'm_ the criminal, not you.'

'I don't think this is funny, Martina! After all I did for you!'

A bigger laugh. Neither of them are happy ones, just dry and disbelieving of the irony of it all. 'After all _you've_ done fer me? Name one thing you've done for me, Shifty. Ever.'

He tries. He can't.

And so he resorts to what she's seen so many people do when they can't think of another way to win the argument. He gets abusive.

She's been called worse, of course. She gets people like Mr Wilson and Mr Dodd and Mrs Cullen who have a whole name-book full of insults just for her, and she never bats an eyelid. But this is Shifty, who she's been attached to for so long that it stings, it really does, especially when she's been used to his whispering words of affection, false as they were.

She holds the phone away from her ear, drops it down with a relieving, satisfying _clunk._

And then she puts her head in her hands and shakes from the stress of it all.

'Are you okay?' The new girl in the next partition is staring at her with concerned eyes. Martina pities the little thing. She's small and blonde and innocent and _young_ , hasn't been here long enough to develop a hard-set mouth yet. She's still sort of sweet and soft and caring, and Martina can remember when all her colleagues were like that at one time or another, when they first arrived, hopeful that they could make some sort of difference. They soon learned, though, and became disillusioned- and so will this girl, not long from now.

Personally, Martina can't remember ever being like that. She didn't have much of a hopeful life before she took this job- it was just one more miserable step on an already miserable journey. She supposes this should make her feel jealous, but it doesn't. It just makes her pity the others even more, because they had high hopes of getting something right. She never did, so she was less disappointed.

'Yeah,' she mutters, brushing away the handkerchief the girl offers her. 'I'm fine.'

The girl doesn't look convinced.

'Really fine,' she repeats, a little more harshly than she intends.

'You in love, or just lost it?'

It's none of her business, Martina thinks, but she can't alienate herself from everyone. She'll never become friends with anyone she works with, but it can't hurt to have an ally or two, especially when they're all up against the same thing. So she forces a smile and answers the question.

'Lost it. Well, I lost it a long time ago, I suppose.'

'I know what _that's_ like,' says the girl, and Martina's a little surprised. How can she? She's only- what?- twenty, give or take a couple of years. 'It makes you feel hopeless, don't it?'

Maybe she's not as innocent and unknowing as Martina thought.

'Yeah. It does.'

The girl ponders. 'Men are such bastards sometimes.'

And Martina can't help but agree.

She's got four wasted years of life to show for that.

* * *

'You didn't sign-on this week.' Martina glares over the counter. 'Why not?'

'Me van broke down,' Billy Boswell whines. 'I couldn't get there!'

'Why didn't you phone us?'

'Oh yeah, _you_ try ringin' up when your engine's gone in the middle of the freeway!'

Martina purses her lips. 'Don't try that one on me. You've all got mobile phones these days- I've caught each and every one of you with them at least once.'

It's true, or it was at some point. Truth is, she doesn't actually see that much of the Boswells these days. Two years ago they'd been surging in as always- individually or in groups, either way was awful- demanding their 'dues' while dripping in expensive gear and gadgets, and then, for no apparent reason at all, the visits stopped. Joey decided to devote his time to his business and his marriage, and had no more time for clever schemes. Jack couldn't be bothered, and stopped claiming. Adrian was the first to go, as soon as he found a job, and having finally freed himself from the shackles of unemployment, worked up the nerve to tell her to 'stick it' before walking out through the double doors, never to disgrace the place with his presence again. And, of course, they never call in to visit Shifty- not after whatever it was that happened between them. Martina's thought about asking, but she decides it's none of her business, especially now she's not even involved with Shifty anymore.

It's only Billy she sees now. She hears all the news from him, of course, all the woes, now he's doing claims for Grandad (surely he can't have that much longer in him now! He's pushing eighty) and for the house and the rent and everything, but they never sound as convincing, nor as interesting. And his stories are always so sloppily pieced together that she can rip through any attempt he makes to claim dishonestly like tissue paper.

'I have problems in my life, you know!' Billy says. He scowls. It makes him look like a baby pug.

'We've _all_ got problems in our lives, Mister Boswell. The rest of us still manage to stick to the rules.'

'My marriage broke down three years ago, you know! I've got to pay _child_ _support_ \- and alimony, and still pay for me van and me sandwiches, which no-one's buying! And I still 'ave to live at home because I can't make enough to get a place of me own!'

Martina's had enough of this. 'How dreadful- it must be so _hard_ for you, livin' at 'ome and havin' your mother lay it all on for you. I live in a flat which consists of three rooms, Mister Boswell, no hot water, a broken stove and barely any furniture. I have virtually nothing to live on-and I don't have the Enterprise Allowance Scheme or any other little money-making schemes on the side to fall back on- _and_ I've 'ad a relationship that's just broken down, so don't bother talkin' to _me_ about problems in yer life, Mister Boswell.'

Billy's stumped. She doesn't normally like to proclaim her own woes, but he's simple enough that the tactic works on him.

'That's sad.' A very perceptive remark.

She just raises one eyebrow at him.

'That's really sad.'

'You're telling me.' Next thing he'll be coming up with a laughable solution.

'If you give me me giro, I'll give you some money!' And there it is. It's easy enough to pick it to pieces. He never thinks things through, this one.

'And I thought you 'ad to pay child support and to get yer van fixed and all those other expenses,' she says, ' 'ow are you gonna manage that?'

'Well, I can borrow money from Joey for me van, and then you can have the giro!'

'But if you can borrow money from your Joey, you don't need the giro at all, now, do you?'

He's stumped again.

'We have a rule 'ere- if you don't sign-on, don't expect ter get anythin'. If you want somethin' for nothin'- _you obey the rules_. We'll send a giro out to you next time you do what you're supposed to.'

Billy looks grumpy again. He opens his mouth.

She beats him to it. 'NEXT!'

* * *

The situation's getting to boiling point- though, ironically, Martina's flat is doing just the opposite. The heating's given out completely now, the stove still needs fixing and there's still no hot water, and what's more, the landlord couldn't care less. And Martina still can't find her post-office book.

There's only one explanation. It's still in her old flat. She's forgotten to pack it.

And if that's the case, she's going to have to go and get it.

The thought fills her with dread and apprehension. Shifty doesn't know where she is, but he's not letting her go without a fight. She's had several more angry phone calls, a few visits at work, even, during which she's been extremely grateful for the safety of the partition. He's aggressive, he's been drinking a lot, she notices, he's not listening to reason nor talking sense. He alternates between pleading with her to come home and telling her in not-so-polite vocabulary exactly what she can do with herself. He's even accused her of having another man. As if she would. As if she would ever put herself through this again.

She can tell he's hurt, a little, but she steels herself against such thoughts. He's hurt her too, a lot more. She's done the right thing in leaving him. She can't blame herself for the way he is.

But still, she puts off going back for her savings book. She doesn't think she's up to a confrontation- not there, not yet.

So she puts it off.

But things go from bad to worse. The weather's getting colder as November approaches- she has to resort to sleeping in her coat. Her shower's so freezing she screams when the water hits her. She hasn't had a hot meal in days.

She needs that emergency money. She's going to have to go back.

Martina bides her time, approaches this carefully. It's a Wednesday night when she returns to the flat- she's chosen this day specifically because, for some bizarre reason, she can never remember Shifty being home on Wednesdays. It's cowardice- total and utter cowardice, trying to avoid him, but Martina reasons she's been brave enough over the past month or so, and she should be allowed a few wimpy acts now and again.

She approaches the front door very quietly, hears the familiar rattle as her keys stick in the lock and then she's in, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. Each footstep seems to echo, as if the place she used to call home is conspiring against her, as if it wants her to be caught.

Martina glances from right to left. No sign of him. She looks down at her watch, checks the time. It's about nine- and she has no idea how much time she has before Shifty gets back, because she has no idea where he's gone in the first place. No time to waste, then. She'd better start searching.

'Come back to apologise, or come back to mock me in my suffering?' The voice makes her jump right out of her skin. He _is_ here, after all.

She starts when she sees him, sitting curled in a ball on the floor in the middle of the living room, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and an empty bottle of something else rolling along the floor beside him. He stares up at her through bloodshot eyes, and she instinctively pulls her coat tighter around herself, as if the synthetic fabric will somehow protect her.

'I just came to get the rest of my things,' she says warily, taking a step toward the other side of the room, trying to avoid him without making it look too obvious. Martina would use her DHSS voice, knows she should to avoid sounding afraid- because that will undoubtedly provoke him, but she can't muster up enough courage, despite all the times she's faced off against aggressive people. Her legs are shaking.

'Lookin' for this, are you?' His speech is slurred. Very slurred. How much has he had? Martina bites her lip as he reaches behind his back, brings out her post-office book. It _is_ what she's looking for. The rest of the odds and ends she's forgotten don't matter that much to her- everything else essential she's already taken, but she needs that post-office book. She can't survive without those savings. It's the only reason she's come back.

'Hand it over, Shifty,' she has a go at the authoritative voice, but it comes out off-key.

'Why?' he turns it over between his hands, 'so you can spend the money on running off with yer _lover_ and shooting emotional guns at me heart from a distance?' He lurches, and the book shudders in his hand. It'd just be a few steps, a quick lunge and she could snatch it, but she doesn't dare. She keeps her distance.

'Who is he, then?'

'Who's who?' Her voice might not be commanding, but at least she keeps it even, calm. If she loses control, he will too, and he's already about to snap.

'Yer _lover._ '

'I don't have a lover, Shifty. You know I don't.'

He slams the book to the floor. 'Do I? _Do I?'_ He leaps up, and it takes every ounce of her willpower not to shrink back. He's quite a short man, but he still manages to tower over her, toppling on his unsteady feet.

'Shifty, give me my book.'

'Why else would you _leave_ me? Why else would you _hurt_ me like this? _Abandon_ me, when I- ne-e-eed you?' He stumbles towards her, falls, grabs her ankle. She gasps, he holds it tightly, constricting the blood flow to her foot, trying to pull her off-balance, and she staggers, gripping the mantel of the fireplace with one hand.

'Oh, and you can talk about _other lovers_ and about _hurt_ , can you, Shifty? How many times did I put up with it- with you? When you went off to who-knows-where, comin' 'ome at all hours, and I _know_ you 'ad other women _._ '

'That's because of me _past, me past_ ,' he wails, and it's almost pitiful, and she almost wants to stoop, stroke his hair, comfort him, except he's drunk, and it's frightening, and it's for her own good that she's breaking this off. 'It's all me past, I was screwed over too much when I was a kid, and me mother…'

'Was a friendly soul, she was,' she's heard this so many times, and though she's let it go too many times, she knows it shouldn't qualify as an excuse. 'And she 'ad an 'undred different lovers, and you were left all alone- that doesn't 'ave to affect the way you are now, Shifty. Yer past doesn't 'ave to affect the choices you make now, unless you _let it.'_

She's startled by how deep her own words are. She never comes out with rubbish like that. Sounds like the sort of thing Adrian Boswell would have put in a poem, once upon a time.

Shifty, too, is startled by the comment. He lies there on the floor like a sack, looking up at her through watery eyes- watery from the drink; Shifty doesn't have enough real emotion to actually cry- and not saying anything.

'Give me my post-office book.'

'No!' He gets back up again, using various bits of furniture as support as he climbs back into the vertical, holding it above her head, out of her reach, waving it tauntingly.

'Shifty,' she finally masters the warning tone, 'give it to me.'

'No! You'll take it and leave me!'

'I've already left you, Shifty- tryin' to stop me takin' me things isn't gonna change that.'

'Then you can't have it!' He manages to run across the room- _how_ , she doesn't think she'll ever know, given how inebriated he is, and then he's at the window, trying to open it.

'Shifty,' she warns. 'Don't.'

'What if I changed?' he still keeps tight hold of her savings book, keeps trying to tug the window open, and somehow she's got to get it from him before he throws it out, or all hope'll be lost. She'll never be able to find it again, not if he drops it from this height.

'Changed?'

'I can do it, I can! I can be a better man, I'll take back the stuff I nicked…'

The entire contents of the flat, then.

'Don't say that, Shifty. Not again.' She puts one hand to her forehead in exasperation, because he's trying every trick he knows to get her to relent, and she can't, she just can't, not when she's come this far. She shudders, almost on the verge of frustrated tears. 'You say that every other _week_ , and I just can't keep doin' this, fritterin' away years of me life waitin' for you ter keep yer word!'

'I'll do it, you know!' He's completely out of it, changing from pleas to threats without any sort of segue. 'I'll get rid of it!'

He doesn't know what he's doing. She takes this to be the result of his alcohol-addled mind.

He still hasn't got the window open, though. Shifty's dexterity isn't what it usually is, and he's forgotten to undo the latch. He shakes the frame, and it shudders, but still doesn't budge. More desperately: 'I'll _do it!_ '

'Go on, then.' She folds her arms. 'Do it.'

He tries; she has to give him credit for _trying_. Probably the most effort he's ever made to fulfil a promise. But he still doesn't remember the latch, still can't do it.

He howls in frustration, throws the book across the room, and Martina dives for it. It lands on the floor, open and face-down, and the pages are all creased over, but she's got it. It's okay. She's going to be all right.

Now might be the ideal time to make her exit. Martina makes for the door, and he flops right back across the room and grabs at her.

'I can change! I can change!'

'You always say that, and you never do.'

'I will, I _will_ , don't leave me, Martina, don't go…' he's clinging onto her leg.

'Let go of me, Shifty. You're drunk.'

'I won't let you…'

'Shifty, go and sober up.'

'I _LOVE YOU_!'

But he doesn't. Not really. He's just used to her, that's all. And she doesn't blame him for wanting her to stay- after all, she's always been the one that works, that supports him, that provides him with somewhere to live, cooks for him, does _everything_ for him. She's the only one who's been stupid enough to stay with him after she's discovered what he's like- the rest run a mile.

She's good old reliable Martina, can always be counted on to take him in after all else fails. But he doesn't love her. Not really. He just doesn't want her to go.

'Stop it.' She yanks her leg away, and it doesn't take much for him to let go, not when he's like this.

'Don't you love me anymore, Martina?'

She looks down at him, and is immediately filled with pity. This is what 'love' does to you, she realises. Martina's occupation involves not pitying anyone, she's trained her whole life, become a master at seeing through acts intended to get sympathy, get her to give in. And she never falls for them. But because she loves Shifty, or because she did once, and she's still somewhat attached, it still hurts to see him in such a pathetic state. It almost makes her want to reach out, comfort him.

 _Of course I still love you,_ she wants to say, or even _you'll get over this, you'll be all right, Shifty._

She doesn't say anything.

She might have loved him once. But she can't live like this anymore. And what's more, she won't.

It's the hardest thing she's ever done, but she turns and walks away.


End file.
